


3:42 am

by deadlocking



Category: Avengers (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Drabble, Dubious Consent, Implied/Referenced Mind Control, Kinda, M/M, Masturbation, Matt Fraction!Clint, Mind Control, POV First Person, Stream of Consciousness, generally clint can't stop thinking about loki, it's a mix between mcu and matt fraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 18:57:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17028174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlocking/pseuds/deadlocking
Summary: those awake early in the morning are often either sad or lonely. he's a bit of both.





	3:42 am

**Author's Note:**

> Frosthawk will always have a special place in my heart.

3:42 a.m. It's dark. Silent. It's the odd hours of the morning and I'm awake. I'm sure Lucky's around here somewhere-- probably peacefully asleep. As much as I'd love company, I'm not about to wake him up. He's probably having a peaceful dream about the little doggy on the fifth floor. Real nice that he's got himself someone. That's more than I can say.

The ceiling isn't particularly interesting, but I can't tear my eyes away from it. Maybe I'm wondering what the sky looks like right above me or something. I don't know. I'm tired.

But then again, when aren't I?

My room's a mess, as usual. Just like the rest of my apartment. Just like the rest of my life. Better remind myself to throw some of my empty pizza boxes away. Nat or Kate or someone'll come by at some point-- maybe today, maybe tomorrow, who knows-- and probably try in vain to whip me back into shape. It's way too much effort, though. At the very least, in the morning I can probably pick up the pile of clothes in the corner and throw them into the washing machine. Whether or not I'll actually wash them remains to be unseen.

I've always been a mess, haven't I? I can't remember a time when I haven't been. Can't think of a moment where I had everything together. Clint "Human Disaster" Barton is a hurricane, after all. Mess after mess after mess left in my wake.

... But the more I think about it, there was one moment in time when I wasn't this. It's damn foolish of me to think it, but it's true. I can already see Nat slapping me for even THINKING it. She'd be ashamed.

Shouldn't she understand, though? Shouldn't she get how great it is for a weapon to be wielded?

The anniversary of the Manhattan incident passed me by before I even realized. That makes four years ago that things got even more insane than they'd already been. Now I'm gallivanting around like some sort of superhero, like at some point I wasn't the thing I protect everyone from.

It makes four years ago that I met him. Four years ago that I stared into his eyes, and he uttered three words that I swear will haunt me for the rest of my life:

"You have heart."

I swear that every time I think about it, a chill goes down my spine. I could swear it's the same one that ran down my back that very day, when that scepter touched my chest, and my world was swallowed in a torrent of icy blue. I thrashed and struggled, gasping for breath inside my mind. It was overwhelming.

But on the outside, I'd calmly placed my gun back in its holster and awaited orders.  
I can't recall a time that I had ever felt such peace.

Even as I struggled and screamed to break free of my mental prison, I felt... peaceful. It wasn't icy bars like you would think. Hell, it wasn't even cold. It was... the most amazing warmth I'd ever felt in my life. That frosty blue blanketed me, held me close, and whispered gently to me.

"You were made to be ruled."

I don't know if it was me or... whatever or whoever it was controlling my body, but I believed it. It felt right. Even though I saw myself shooting at the Director, at people I called my comrades, it still felt right. It all felt so right to just let my body move how it was told to, to look to this... guy that I'd just met that was basically abducting me and know I belonged to him.

You know, I heard Loki say that the Tesseract touched everyone differently. I never asked Selvig what he saw. I don't know if I can ever tell anyone about any of this-- it's been four years, after all.

"You know what it's like to be unmade?"  
Boy, do I.

At a time, these fingers were his fingers.  
At a time, this body was his body.  
And god, I had never felt so liberated.

Maybe I ought to be ashamed of myself. After all, it's been four years. And even if parts of it felt amazing, I still did horrible things. There's so much more that weighs me down, even with moments like these. I killed people. I killed other agents. I tried to kill my best friend.

I ought to be downright ashamed of myself. I mean, I am-- not a moment goes by that I don't think about the terrible things I did. I'm so terrified of him coming back, how every single day there's that faint amount of fear that it'll be the day that he comes back for me. Or maybe it'll be the day that I just snap, and all those people that look at me and whisper that my eyes are just too blue will have had a real good reason to look at me and be scared.

But I ought to be ashamed of myself for the way a part of me wants to go back to four years ago, when I had him and he had me, and instead of being a directionless mess I was the perfect weapon. There was something so intoxicating about those green eyes, the way they raked over me, and the tone of his voice when he praised his "dear hawk" for a job well done.

I certainly ought to hate myself for liking the way those cool fingers brushed over my skin, the way his touch practically electrocuted me, brought me to life. Detest the way those eyes captivated me, and drew me in, even with the scepter's icy blue washed over me. I think for a time, I might have been just myself. That other me retreated back and let me reap the rewards of his work.

Or maybe I tell myself that to make myself feel better for all of this. That I can blame someone else for the things I did, the things I remember doing without hesitation in his name. God, how disgusting.

"Sir," would leave my lips, dripping off my tongue like poison-- it was the most delicious poison I'd ever ingested. I'd stand at attention, a prisoner in my own body even when I wanted to turn and run away like the prey I was to this ultimate predator. And then his lips would twitch up into a razor sharp smile-- did he get off on that? Did he just flat out get off on the way his thralls must have worshiped him? He was a god after all. And at the time, he was MY god-- he was the world to me. I can't tell if that was me thinking or what the Tesseract had me think.

After four years, though, I'm still thinking, still worshiping, god oh god I'm worshiping with panted prayers and frantic movements and shut eyes, hoping that wherever he is he knows what he's done-- or that maybe somewhere out there looking down on me and sneering because he's ruined me. He must have known that much at least. Did he like that? Did he like knowing that he took me and remade me how he wanted me, wielded me, used me, abused me, wrecked me and left behind scars that no one else can see but me? Did he like knowing that somewhere out there was a monument to his godhood?

My breath hitches. I'm as tense as a bowstring. I can just see that razor sharp grin behind closed eye lids. It's just like four years ago was yesterday, or even today. But it's not-- it's so long ago and I'm alone in the dark and silence of my apartment, and he's not here, he's definitely not staring me down and whispering to me in some godforsaken language that I can't understand but at the same time do, and I'm not holding back a whimper and trying to disobey when he tells me to say his name, to worship and get everything I desire, and I'm especially at home and not there with him as I come undone again by my hand but his touch--  
Loki, Loki, Loki, my god, Loki--

3:59 a.m. It's dark. Silent. Well, silent save for the way my heart's racing as I try to bring myself down from a high. I draw a shuddered sigh, and wipe the sweat away from my brow before grabbing a couple tissues to wipe myself off. I really ought to go throw my trash away properly, but as it is I think I just want to sleep. I don't think I woke Lucky up, so that's always good, I guess.

I ought to be ashamed of myself for this. For all of this. I ought to hate myself.  
"It can wait until morning."

Ya. I've been saying that for years now.


End file.
